


Into the Dark

by revolutions_revelations



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Afterlife, Angst, M/M, Post-Canon, but they get a happy ending I promise
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-24
Updated: 2017-04-24
Packaged: 2018-10-23 09:02:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10716327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/revolutions_revelations/pseuds/revolutions_revelations
Summary: Grantaire and Enjolras die hand in hand, but the heavens and hells decide that they can wait and give the two boys something else: a chance.





	Into the Dark

_“Do you permit it?”_

As the gunshots ring, Grantaire faintly registers Enjolras squeezing his hand before his world goes red. Red isn’t exactly the color he had expected to see. He never really associated the color red with his own death. 

To most people, red is the color of blood, lust, and anger, so perhaps it would make sense for red to be color that clouds Grantaire’s vision in the afterlife. Yet, sense was never something that the Fates would allow Grantaire. To Grantaire, red is the color of Enjolras’ favorite coat and the lipsticks Musichetta used to steal from pickpocketing the aristocrats. Red is the color of Bahorel’s boldness and the color of a well-placed punch. Red is the color of Gavroche’s cheeks after a night of trouble-making in the streets. Red is what he feels when Enjolras fights with him and what he felt when Enjolras accepted his hand for the briefest of moments. He would have never expected death to also be red.

It takes Grantaire a few moments to register that he is consciously thinking about seeing red, which could mean one of two things: that he isn’t dead, or that an afterlife exists. A few moments later, Grantaire realizes that his face is pressed against a soft cloth and that the red he’s seeing is awfully familiar shade. He feels his knees pressed against hard ground and his fist grabbing at the soft cloth. Another moment passes before Grantaire lifts his head and sees that he’s kneeling at Enjolras’ feet. The long red coat flutters slightly as Grantaire releases his grip of the end of it in surprise.

“Hello, Grantaire.” Enjolras smiles grimly down at him. “I also was not expecting this.”

“How—” Grantaire shakily gets to his feet and tries to take in his new environment. A quick scan of the room shows that he’s not really in a strange new world; he is, instead, in an empty one. They’re still standing in the small café they were shot in, only it’s completely empty. He looks out the window to find no bodies strewn in the streets, no barricade, no people. It’s just him and Enjolras and the streets of Paris.

“I can’t decide if this is heaven or hell,” Enjolras admits thoughtfully. “It’s not heaven because my friends are nowhere in sight. Yet…” he trails off and looks intently at Grantaire. “Yet, this can’t be hell. You are here.”

Grantaire feels his heart tug painfully in his chest. Enjolras’ fiery gaze is unwavering, leaving Grantaire nowhere to cower and hide.

“I can’t tell if this is heaven, or hell’s idea of playing a bad joke,” Grantaire replies. He could imagine the devil concocting the image of Enjolras to tease Grantaire with hope before swiftly taking it away again. It would be the perfect eternal punishment, personalized just for him.

“Always the cynic.” Enjolras breaks his stare to smile and shake his head fondly. Even in death, his curls are lively and golden.

“I’m only being realistic.”

Enjolras rolls his eyes. “We are here, talking with each other after being executed by a firing squad and you worry about realism?”

Grantaire shrugs.

Enjolras sighs and walks toward the window. He glances down at the empty pavement, his angelic face carved with regret and guilt. Grantaire could be mistaken, but Enjolras looks to have tears in his eyes. “I got everyone killed,” he whispers.

“They knew what they were getting into, Apollo. They died for a good cause.”

Enjolras turns back to look at Grantaire. “You never believed it would work.”

“No, I didn’t think it would. That doesn’t mean I didn’t want it to work, though,” Grantaire answers truthfully. “I wanted it to work, for your sake.”

“I should have listened to you,” Enjolras admits bitterly.

Grantaire shakes his head and gently takes Enjolras’ hands into his own. “I didn’t die for a man that gives into defeat so easily. One battle lost does not account for a whole war.”

Enjolras lets out a shaky breath. “Is it selfish for me to be glad that you’re here?”

“You can be selfish just this once, Apollo,” Grantaire reassures. He lets go of Enjolras’ hands and motions at the door. “Come on. Aren’t you curious to see what death looks like?”

 

Enjolras is used to being the fearless leader, but in this strange, empty version of Paris, he finds himself following Grantaire’s lead. Grantaire weaves through streets and alleyways that are largely unfamiliar to Enjolras. There’s endless chatter coming from Grantaire’s mouth as he explains all the little places they pass.

“Make a left and you’ll arrive in the most beautiful little bakery. Actually, it’s not really a bakery. I think the old woman just likes to share her lunch with me. She makes a delightful croissant on Thursdays. She’s always trying to get me to meet her granddaughter, that poor old woman. I wonder how bad things must be for her to think that I’m a fit choice for a suitor. But I think we’ll take a right here, instead. I want to see if the little bookstore is in this world.”

Enjolras listens and observes. Grantaire is gesturing wildly as he tells stories about the bookstore owner, but the gestures aren’t uncontrolled the way they usually are when he’s drunk. His eyes are bright instead of glazed and a smile plays at his lips. Grantaire looks, ironically, _alive_. 

“You loved Paris,” Enjolras blurts out in the middle of Grantaire’s ramblings. 

Grantaire stops and frowns, confused. “I suppose I did. She’s a beautiful city.”

“I never understood you. You loved Paris, but you didn’t love France.”

“It was your job to love Patria. It was my job to love… other things,” Grantaire trails off so that the end is just a whisper, barely audible despite the quiet around them.

“I loved other things too,” Enjolras says. His tone is gentle, unlike anything Grantaire has ever heard.

In the silent alleyway of an empty city located in not-quite-heaven and not-quite-hell, Grantaire lets out a shaky breath before asking, “Which other things?”

Enjolras tucks a golden curl behind his ear, deep in thought, before answering. “I loved my friends. Courfeyrac and Combeferre were my brothers. I loved Bossuet, Joly, and even Musichetta. I loved Feuilly, Bahorel, Marius, little Gavroche, and sweet Jehan.” Enjolras pauses, deliberately omitting the name that matters the most. His eyes search Grantaire’s as he tries to find the right words to say. “I loved them all, but you were always different.

“I didn’t love the cause as they did,” Grantaire says, his voice trembling despite his best efforts. “You despised me for that.”

“I never despised you; I simply didn’t understand,” Enjolras explains.

“But you never loved me.” The words drop like cement. Grantaire finally meets Enjolras’ eyes, daring him to say otherwise.

“No. I didn’t,” Enjolras admits softly. “But there was never a chance for me to love you the way I think I would have wanted. We didn’t have the time or energy.”

“ _You_ did not have the time or energy. Don’t speak for the both of us,” Grantaire says, going slightly stone-faced.

“I think that’s why I’m here.” Enjolras gently places a hand on Grantaire’s broad shoulder, trying desperately to finally break through Grantaire’s walls. “Time and energy is all I have now and you’re here.”

Grantaire feels that familiar tug of hope he used to feel when Enjolras’ gaze lingered on him for a moment too long during those long meetings in the back of the Musain. It’s what kept him from drinking one too many bottles of absinthe most nights. 

“Come,” Grantaire finally says, unwilling to subject himself to more painful silence, “let’s see if the sun still sets here. I have a feeling the stars will be brighter.”

Enjolras nods, dropping his hand. Grantaire can still feel the heat of it lingering as they begin to walk again. He’s quieter than before, only pointing out one or two things to Enjolras as they weave their way through the streets.

 

They don’t stop again until they reach the Elephant of the Bastille in the center of Saint-Michel. The hollow unfinished statue is even more eery in the weird limbo of this afterlife.

“Gavroche used to sleep here,” Grantaire says softly. Hot tears prick at his eyes at the memory of his young friend’s final moments. “I used to bring him warm cider when the nights grew cold.”

“He admired you.” Enjolras smiles sadly. “He wanted to be just like you. I caught him trying to fence orphans on the streets with makeshift blades.”

“He deserved better.”

“They all deserved better. That’s why we fought,” Enjolras says with conviction.

“And now he’s dead,” Grantaire retorts. “We’re dead.”

There’s silence as Grantaire turns away in an effort to avoid Enjolras’s hard stare. It’s Enjolras who finally breaks and sighs, “I suppose you’re right.”

“I didn’t mean for it to sound so harsh. He was like a little brother to me,” Grantaire explains.

“He was a good child. We all loved him,” Enjolras says. “Of all the deaths, I wish his could have been avoided most of all.”

“He was only there because he followed me everywhere.” Grantaire’s voice breaks as guilty tears begin to flow.

“And you were only there because you followed me. Do you blame me for your death?” Enjolras asks.

“Of course not,” Grantaire says indignantly.

“Then do not blame yourself for his.” Enjolras uses the sleeve of his beautiful red coat to dab at the stream of tears running down Grantaire’s cheeks. “Now, I believe the sun is beginning to set. You promised me we’d see the stars.”

Grantaire’s face crumples into a smile. “Apollo wants to see the stars?” he manages to joke.

“The stars and the sun are merely opposite sides of the same coin,” Enjolras remarks. “It would be my pleasure to see the stars.”

Grantaire grins despite the remnants of his tears still cooling on his cheeks. He leads Enjolras to the top of an old tower at the edge of the Saint-Michel just as the the sun dips below the horizon. The sky is still streaked with deep violet and soft pinks as they settle on the roof.

“Did you come here often?” Enjolras asks. He’s sitting cross-legged and staring bright-eyed down at the empty streets.

“Only when I wasn’t too drunk. The stairs can be hard to manage if you can barely see straight,” Grantaire jokes.

“Why did you drink so much if that meant giving up a view like this?” The question slips out before Enjolras can think to stop it.

“I drank because it was the only thing that made everything stop for a few moments. It is harder to be upset when you feel nothing at all.” 

Enjolras glances at Grantaire, surprised by the honest response. “I always wondered how you came to be a drunk. I remember the days you used to out-read me in university. You were always much smarter than people first assumed.”

Grantaire shrugged. “That only meant I was held more captive by my thoughts. Doesn’t thinking ever exhaust you?”

“I can’t say I was ever brilliant enough for that to be a problem.”

“I wouldn’t call it brilliance.”

Enjolras frowned. “I should think it was brilliance. You know, I used to read all night to be able to catch up with you.”

“Well, look where it got me.”

“And I’m exactly in the same spot as you. So what does that say about the both of us?” Enjolras asks.

“I know why I’m here. I still don’t know why you’ve been subjected to the same fate as me,” Grantaire says softly. He motions to the sky, where the first stars are beginning to show themselves. “I don’t know why you aren’t there with the rest of them.” 

“I was no saint,” Enjolras says gravely.

“I am willing to fight anyone who believes that any human is so pure.”

“I was terrible to you.”

“I would have done the same in your place.”

Enjolras shakes his head. “No, you wouldn’t. You loved more than all the rest of us combined. You have no blood on your hands.” 

Grantaire laughs dryly. “It is only because I was too drunk to aim.”

“Still, I am no saint. I should pay repentance at least for how I have treated you.”

“I didn’t mind. I still loved you.” Grantaire’s voice is warm and earnest as he admits his feelings aloud for the first time.

“Loved?” Enjolras asks carefully. He finds himself unable to look away from Grantaire despite the stars beginning to twinkle above them.

“Love.” Grantaire searches Enjolras’ delicate features for a reaction. The fair-haired man is even more beautiful in the soft moonlight. There is no disgust or repulsion written in the marble-like face, only recognition and gentleness.

“Do you permit it?” Enjolras is close enough for Grantaire to feel the warmth of his breath.

Grantaire cannot find the voice to answer and merely nods.

Under the light moon and the stars, the Sun places his lips on Grantaire’s. To Grantaire, it feels like rays of light are exploding from his chest as pure chords of the universe’s most perfect harmonies course through his veins. For Enjolras, it feels intoxicating in the way a few swigs of really good wine can be warming on a cold night.

The kiss is chaste and short, but it is enough to satisfy whatever forces are moving the heavens and the hells. Grantaire and Enjolras open their eyes to find themselves no longer alone in an empty Paris. Instead, there is a roar as the boys of the barricade greet them and introduce them to their rightful places among the stars.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! I'm really sorry for all the angst, but I wanted the canon to allow for the two idiots to get a happy ending, even it if means waiting for the afterlife.
> 
> You can find me on tumblr at buckyandlokiruinedme. All kudos and comments are much appreciated.


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